


The Separation of Absence

by Gethsemane342



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Grief/Mourning, Moving On, Past Character Death, Post-Loss, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 12:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18249845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gethsemane342/pseuds/Gethsemane342
Summary: "She thinks maybe the photography helps. Because there's a theme, her tutors say, in the photos she takes. An absence of something. She knows what they mean because in so many of her photos, she can see Chloe, just out of shot." A short story of what it means to try to separate absence from presence. Post-Bay ending.





	1. Absence

**Author's Note:**

> This is in two parts but was originally written as a oneshot. If anyone thinks it looks familiar, I am the Gethsemane342 from FF.net, where this was posted first. Enjoy!

 

  **1\. Absence**

It takes her weeks to finish the first stage of grief.

She knows. She  _knows_  that Chloe is dead. She's seen it happen so many times. She saw the coffin.

But.

She sees her. In the school parking lot, waiting for her to haul ass so they can start the next stage of their adventure. At the beach, watching the waves. In her room, dancing and laughing madly.

She's not there, of course. She'll never be there again.

She sees the worried looks of her friends but they don't understand. They see someone mourning an old friend, not … Chloe. Even Joyce and David, sweet as they are, don't fully understand. After all, Max hasn't seen Chloe for five years.

But.

She dreams that when she wakes up, Chloe will be there, next to her. She thinks, if she just goes by the Two Whales, she'll find Chloe, sponging free food from her mom. Or maybe, if she just checks her phone one more time, there'll be a text telling her to hurry up. She thinks, if she just, if … if she…

* * *

Anger and bargaining take longer. Months.

They come together, because the one person she's truly angry at is herself. She had the choice. Maybe that tornado would have gone away. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it doesn't matter, all these people, because what do they compare, to Chloe?

She makes bitter, caustic comments. She spends much of her time alone, unable to face what Chloe died for. Warren and Kate reach out to her, and she tries to let them in, but it's usually easier not to. Kate is easy to deflect, because she has her own problems and Max finds she has a sort of peace if she sits with Kate through them; Warren is more persistent and she knows she hurts him when she doesn't let him in.

In her worst moments, she tells the universe that it's not fair – why give her powers if she can't  _use_  them? Was it a life lesson? Because what was the point if she had to undo everything again? Sometimes, she wakes, gasping, struggling to raise her limbs or rubbing at her neck, seeing only Mark Jefferson, and that makes her  _furious_. Other times, the howling of wind and battering of rain makes her cringe and she hates herself. So what was the fucking point? What if she took Chloe's place? Or Rachel's? Would everything be OK then?

She looks at the people she saved and wishes Chloe were more selfish, that  _she_  were more selfish, that she could look at them and wish them gone. Because that's the kicker. Deep down, she knows if she hadn't gone back, she and Chloe would never have lived with the guilt.

(She can barely touch her camera, just keeps it in her satchel, because God, that flash and she can't move and…)

She starts to walk in the places they were. She starts with the lighthouse, which is a mistake. She doesn't know what she's hoping for – the doe, maybe. Chloe, sitting on a bench, believing her. She goes to the cliff edge and for the first time wonders if maybe the answer is to jump. Make a sacrifice.

But Chloe wouldn't forgive her. She  _knows_  that.

She passes Chloe's house, but doesn't go in. She eats at the Two Whales, but it's too painful for her and Joyce, and nowhere is Chloe more absent than there. She stops, briefly, in the swimming pool but everyone laughing is too much.

She goes to the junkyard. She passes Rachel's early grave, but feels nothing. She walks along the train tracks but loses her balance. When a train passes by, she remembers Chloe  _screaming_  and shudders. She never wants to hear that noise again.

She goes to the hideout. The flyers and papers from before have flown away, but she can still see the signs of Rachel and Chloe. The dartboard on the wall. The cans and belongings strewn everywhere. Posters and graffiti on the wall.

_CHLOE WAS HERE_

_RACheL WAS HERE._

Once, she'd written  _max was here_ , but of course, that never happened.

_YOU'RE ALL GONNA DIE_

_RACheL IS HERE_

She shudders. But the more she looks at the graffiti, the more she wonders whether maybe Chloe found Rachel, wherever they are. If they're together and happy. After a few seconds, she picks up a nearby pen, and draws a circle around their statements.

"Hey. HEY!"

She jumps and the circle goes askew. When she turns, she sees a blond-haired man running towards her.

"Hey!" he shouts again. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Nobody," she says because here and now, that's exactly who she is. They've never met. She's never tried to shoot him, seen him die, talked to him in a diner as he huddled from the storm. Here and now, Frank Bowers is just a scary stranger.

"Nobody, huh," he says and his familiar drawl makes her shiver. "Then what the fuck you doing here?"

"Just looking."

"Well, look somewhere else." He pauses and frowns at her. "Hey, I know you." For a moment, her heart hammers because maybe,  _maybe_ \- "You were at her funeral. Chloe's."

Disappointment, mixed with anger at herself for being so  _stupid_. "Yeah," she says. Something occurs to her. "How do you know that? You weren't there."

He shrugs, though he looks a little sheepish. "I went to look. Me and Chloe, we had business."

She smiles for what feels like the first time in months. "You're a good person, Frank."

"For attending a funeral? You high, ki-" He pauses. "How d'you know my name?"

She freezes. "You, uh, know some of the students at Blackwell."

This seems to satisfy him. "So what you doing here anyway?" he says. "How'd you know Chloe?"

"We were friends," Max says because that's safe and because her throat hurts with the effort of pretending that's all they were. Her eyes flicker away. "I wanted to see her … here…"

Frank nods. "I get that." He nods at the wall. "Rachel was my girl, you know? They were always together, those two." His face darkens. "Good thing they arrested that Jefferson prick or I'd have fucking killed him. Him  _and_ Prescott, those sick fucks. Fuck! And they used  _my_  fucking…" He seems to rip at nothing, and Max takes a step back. But then he calms himself. "I think of 'em sometimes. Up there, somewhere. Rocking out. Like to think they're happy. Waiting for me, even, though God knows I don't deserve it."

"I want to think that too." She looks around the junkyard, trying not to think how  _Chloe_  won't be waiting for her, not after what she did. Chloe will only remember her as the girl who didn't even bother to keep in touch.

"Hey, hey, I'm not interesting enough for you?"

"Huh? No. I mean yes but…" She sighs. "Sorry." She looks around again. "I guess I hoped they'd be here."

He nods, like it's the wisest fucking thing he's heard all day. "I gotta get back. Was meant to be…" He doesn't seem to have it in him to lie. "Whatever."

They walk out of the hideout together. After an awkward moment, he turns and heads past her, to the railway tracks. She watches him go and, almost automatically, takes out the disused Polaroid camera from her satchel and snaps a photo.

He turns immediately. "What the fuck?"

She shakes her head, not sure what's come over her. She hasn't touched her camera since … well. But she takes the photo, shakes it, and looks at it.

It's a great shot. Frank is walking, hunched, but his head is tilted slightly towards the hideout. The hand with Rachel's bracelet is out towards the edge, as though searching for someone. Wordlessly, she shows it to Frank.

"The fuck is this?" He looks at it some more. "She's not there."

Her eyes sting as she looks at the absence of Rachel in the photo. "No," she says. "I know."

* * *

It's depression after that, and that lasts another two years, into college. She studies photography, because what else does she have?

After that photograph in the junkyard, it's not felt as dirty. It's helped, in a way, to have that barrier back again. To have something to focus on, other than what she did.

(Her nightmares of the Dark Room increase, and she doesn't know if the price is worth it.)

Warren and Kate make an effort to stay in touch, but they're the only two. She tries to put on a happy front around them, but they know her better than that. On more than one occasion, she's contemplated  _telling_  them but that means telling them about Kate falling from a roof; Warren being blown to pieces in a diner; Victoria, murdered by Jefferson; Max, taped to a chair, a needle to her neck; Chloe, Chloe, Chloe…

And they'd never believe her anyway.

(And God knows, Kate needs to focus on herself and needs Max to be strong for her.)

So she gets up. She eats. She goes to class. She takes photographs. She talks to Kate and Warren. She eats dinner. She goes to sleep.

She misses Chloe. She misses Chloe so fiercely, it aches.

* * *

It comes on her gradually, the sort of acceptance that she's gone. She couldn't put her finger on when it happens. She talks to people, a little more. She listens to music. She visits her parents in Seattle. She takes photographs and it's clean now, no stink of death or Jefferson there. She meets Kate every so often and smiles as Kate becomes Kate again.

She doesn't know that it stops hurting but it becomes a fact. She did this shitty thing. She's still here.

_And Max Caulfield? Don't you forget about me_.

She doesn't. She would never. She still sees hints of her around. She thinks maybe the photography helps. Because there's a theme, her tutors say, in the photos she takes. An absence of something. She knows what they mean because in so many of her photos, she can see Chloe, just out of shot. She never says that though. It's enough for her to know that others can  _see_  that she is there somewhere. It feels right.

* * *

Her friends say, "One drink won't hurt, you know."

She doesn't drink but she can't explain the Dark Room to them.

Her friends say, "You can crash over ours, if you want."

She makes excuses because how can she explain the nightmares that grip her, sometimes?

Her friends say, "You have some weird-ass fears, Caulfield. I get needles. I kinda get storms. But  _trains_?"

She laughs that one off because she's never had to pull her best friend away from train tracks, here.

* * *

She lets herself get into relationships. They don't last. Some are serious, some are not, but none of them are Chloe. Maybe that's unrealistic but that's the truth.

(Her first time is nothing like it would have been with Chloe – too serious, too fast, too rough.)

She can't explain it, in the same way that she can't explain why storms make her queasy, why nosebleeds make her feel sick, why needles make her tense. She tries once, when a boyfriend in the heat of the moment grabs her wrists tightly and induces a panic attack because she's trapped, she can't move and-

He apologises, of course. He's not Mark Jefferson. She splutters through tears and snot that it's not him, it's, she, she had a bad experience. But she can't explain it. She can't say it wasn't Mark Jefferson because he'll want her to report the culprit. She could pretend she doesn't know, or doesn't want to, but it will sound too similar. And Max Caulfield was not a victim of Mark Jefferson. Not here.

They break apart for unrelated reasons. She avoids romance for a while. When she returns to it, she alludes softly to the bad experience, asks for gentleness and usually gets it.

(Chloe would have understood. Chloe would have laughed and pushed the boundaries, but she would have backed off when she saw how Max was and refused to move forwards until Max was ready.)

* * *

They usually break it off for the same reason.

"I just feel like … shit, Max," they'll say. "It's like you're looking for someone else."

Which is entirely true and she hates herself for it.

Sometimes – the ones she's grown a little closer to – say, "You almost keep yourself apart. It's like you can't trust me."

That's only partly true. She does keep herself apart. Better that than let them trust her and then let them down too.

* * *

Her life moves on. She settles in San Francisco, because LA is somewhere Chloe should have been. She freelances as a photographer but makes submissions to galleries, and starts to become known in the photography world. It's strange, to achieve her childhood dream, when the people she knew then are long out of her life. She loses touch past emails with Warren, and Kate has her own life now, but Max has a few friends and it's not so bad.

She runs into Victoria, once. Victoria is also making her own waves in the photography world and people sometimes draw comparisons between the two, even though they have such different styles. Victoria makes awkward chat with her – she's grown since Blackwell but there's just too much distance between them to be more than acquaintances.

About ten years after Blackwell, she starts to think maybe she can live her life like this. Taking photos, fading into the background, living quietly. Not waiting for Chloe – not after she left her to die in a bathroom, unloved and unwanted – but accepting that maybe Chloe has Rachel up there and doesn't need Max anyway. Not quite happy but not  _unhappy_.

But then she has the interview.

* * *

She's had interviews occasionally, in relation to her work, and this one doesn't start any differently to the others. The reporter is a woman around her age, dark skinned, long braids, a kind smile. Pretty, Max thinks absently.

(Chloe would already be laughing at Max, nudging her and telling her she has the hots for this stranger.)

She starts by asking about Max's earlier works – in particular, the missing person or persons. Her fans (God, it's weird to have  _fans_ ) have theories about who it or they are. The only common theme is that each person is thought to be just outside shot. Some people have noticed a punk rock theme as well, though nobody's sure if there's a link.

She's recited these answers before, and it comes easily to her. She's not quite famous enough to warrant investigative reporting.

"It's not the same person," she says. "My first one, for example, the missing person is a friend of a friend." She glances at that picture taken in American Rust when she was eighteen. Frank agreed that she could use it as long as she never identified him. "The man's girlfriend," she adds. "She passed away a year before I took it." She smiles now, on cue. "And  _this_  is just a lucky shot." She points to another of her more famous images – at a busy crossroads, a teenager reaches for something to the side, hand on mouth, looking horrified. "He was reaching for a balloon that was flying away."

This is usually the point that the reporters move on, but this one says, "I always thought people misunderstood that one. Isn't the missing person next to  _you_? Like you took the picture because it amused them?" When Max doesn't reply, she says, "It's the butterfly wing in the bottom right corner. I know some people think it's because it's one of your early ones but you're known for not using shots with sloppy details." She smiles winningly at Max. "Am I in the ballpark?"

"You're not completely off."

She freezes. She has  _never_  admitted that the picture is used  _because_  of the butterfly wing. Because Chloe would have found the teenager's expression amusing. The reporter's eyes widen but maybe she sees Max's tension because she says, "Well, your fans can thank me for sparking a new conspiracy theory then." She smiles at Max reassuringly. "Why is it you focus on absence though?"

"I don't," she says, glad to be on familiar ground again. "Presence and absence are together. You can't separate them: presence fills the void left by absence." She makes herself smile. "To quote my old professor. It's true, though. Photos capture a moment in time, a moment in the past, and let you see what was present at that precise second. " She shifts a little. "I feel like there's no real way to capture how absence feels. How it feels impossible that they're no longer there. In these photos, presence is just filling that void. It doesn't make it."

She's repeated it often enough but the reporter doesn't nod wisely, as though she understood what, to Max, sounds a little like bullshit. Instead, she freezes. Then she scribbles something down and says, "Let's move on to your most recent collection." She sounds rattled. "It's different."

It is. Max's last collection was about fears. Needles, blood, storms, trains, paralysis, fire, guns, heights (helplessness). Among others. It helped her, she thinks, to work through her fears. Sometimes, she'd almost felt like Chloe was next to her.

This.

Is harder.

"It's a strange mix, almost, between dark and twisted; and hope," the reporter continues. "The use of models – which I don't think you've ever used before – being  _almost_  constrained but each with that gap where they're freeing themselves. If you'll forgive me for saying so, it looks similar to Mark Jefferson's work. I understand he taught you before…"

Max closes her eyes. She'd known they'd ask that question but it still hurts. "It's inspired by him," she says, "but it's a  _fuck you_  to him."

The reporter snorts. "I'll edit that out."

"Understood." She swallows, to gather her courage. "Jefferson was obsessed with capturing corruption. I wanted to show that corruption is ugly but you can  _fight_  against shit like that." She swallows. This is harder than she expected. "That's why I used different ages and genders as well. He preyed on young women but anyone can be a victim and anyone can fight back. And Kate Marsh … she wanted to help."

"It works well," the reporter assures her. "The one that caught my eye actually is the one of Kate Marsh and you – I understand you don't pose for your own photos, generally."

"Not anymore."

"What caught my eye is that everyone else is alone and lying down. In yours, you're standing up from a chair, and Kate is ripping tape from you. And the look on your face…"

In the photo, there are tears in her eyes. The camera caught the exact moment when she realised she wasn't strong enough to do it, the exact moment where Kate had run across to save her. She used the picture to show how strong Kate had become. It was much better than the one she'd originally planned to use for Kate.

(She couldn't explain to Kate  _why_  she'd gotten so upset. She eventually invented a bad experience. Kate had sat there and held her for a very long time.)

The reporter waits for Max to answer, but she just rubs her wrists. So she says, "It made me think … I looked into it, but you weren't reported as one of Jefferson's victims."

She knows her voice shakes with emotion as she says, "No. I wasn't." She makes herself say, "Kate was the victim here. That's why I used this picture.  _She's_  the one who fought back."

The reporter thanks her for the interview, looking at her with a concerned expression.

* * *

At the end of the event, Max scoops up her jacket and is just walking out when she hears, "Hey, wait up."

Max turns to see the reporter from earlier. The woman smiles tentatively.

"I'm Hannah Okafor," she says. She's dressed in a smart blouse, scarf and trousers, but she sticks her hands in her pockets like a little kid. "Can we grab a coffee?" Max doesn't know how to respond. "I wanted to ask you something. Off the record. And apologise."

"Apologise?"

"Not here."

So they go. She's taller than Max but not as tall as Chloe was, and she seems to blend in perfectly with the streets. She leads Max to a busy coffee shop, a few blocks away. She insists on paying for the coffee.

When they're both sat with their drinks, she says, "I wanted to apologise for upsetting you earlier."

"I wasn't-" she starts even though nobody else was quite as intense as Hannah.

"You were." Max expects her to ask about Jefferson again, but she says, "The missing person. Someone you were close to?"

"As I said, it's different-"

"It's OK if you don't wanna talk about it," Hannah says. Max notes her voice is less clipped, friendlier. "I just wondered. 'Cause, to be honest, apart from that first one with the anonymous man, I always got the impression that the missing person is with  _you_ , not the subject."

"Yeah, you said about the balloon-"

"Not just the balloon one."

"D'you ever let people finish?"

Hannah pauses and then smiles. She has a nice smile. Friendly. No malice or anger. "Sorry," she says. "My brother says I get so excited about my theories, I just have to let them out. But, uh, OK, I'm gonna come across as a complete geek now but take  _this_  one for example." She looks up the photo on her phone. It's a concert but the band is just out of shot. "Everyone says this one's obvious 'cause the band's not there.  _But_  the photo's at a tilted angle. Like someone has their arm around you and pulled you, just as you took the shot. I always felt like the missing person is hugging you."

"I went with friends," Max says. But she shivers because Hannah is, once again, right. Max leaned to the left and back when she took the shot, trying to get the crowd. She used the shot because it felt like  _Chloe_  would have hugged her that way, if she were at the concert. She'd seen some memorabilia of this band in her room.

"How about this one?" It's a booth at a diner. It's taken from one side, so you can only see the person sitting opposite. That person is looking to the side off-shot. "I've heard people say it's the person the customer's listening to that's missing."

Max says, "You're right."

"But I- Huh?"

It feels odd to discuss her work with someone who  _gets_  her mental process. "The missing person's opposite the customer. The customer wasn't talking to anyone."

"Is someone missing in  _all_  your pictures?"

"Not in my most recent collection. She's only missing from one of them."

"She?" Hannah says and Max freezes. Gently, Hannah says, "This is gonna sound creepy but I really did do my research. Partly for this interview and partly 'cause, uh, I actually genuinely love your work so I got excited when they said I was coming to this. Uh. I read that what got Jefferson and that teenager arrested was a teenager being shot in a school bathroom. And I saw in, like, one article that  _you_  were an eyewitness and the victim had been an old friend of yours."

"I better go."

"Max, no, wait, I'm sorry. Shit, that's rough. I just…" She hesitates. "What you said earlier, it … I got it. About absence, I mean."

"What did I say earlier?"

"How you can't capture absence 'cause you can't capture the impossible feeling that they're no longer there." She's fiddling with her cup now, shoulders hunched a little. "It struck a chord."

"I'm sorry," Max says.

Hannah waves it away. "It was a long time ago."

"It doesn't stop it hurting though."

Hannah looks at her, brown eyes piercing. "No. It doesn't." She fiddles with the cup again. "I think it's kinda cool, you know. You doing this stealth thing where your, uh, person is the one hiding but nobody else knows it's her. It's like a personal reminder, just for you."

Max flushes. "It's totally freaky that you've worked this out," she murmurs.

"I won't tell anyone," Hannah promises. "Though maybe I'll have to avoid interviewing you." She frowns. "I didn't think this through. How'm I gonna explain this to my boss?" She perks up. "Oh well, I'll just lie."

Max can't help laughing, which makes Hannah laugh. Suddenly, the ice feels broken. Max asks her how she became a reporter and Hannah tells her how she loves to talk, to enquire, loves art and photography and this all came together for her. They don't talk about Max's work again.

She's friendly, bubbly and chatty but there's something sensitive there. She doesn't seem to mind that Max is reserved. Max discovers that they have similar taste in films and books. Hannah loves sport; Max does not. Hannah likes partying; Max does not. Max likes nature; Hannah could take it or leave it. Max likes Hannah's tendency to babble her thoughts in a stream; Hannah seems to like Max's dry comments.

She only realises how long they've been there when the barista comes over and tells them the coffee shop is closing. Max blinks. She can't remember the last time she enjoyed herself so much.

Hannah seems to think the same because as they leave, she says, "This was really fun. Would you be up for a movie on the weekend?" Max hesitates and she says, "Not … I mean, I  _am_  gay but I meant as friends."

Max smiles. "Yeah," she says. "Let's do it."

* * *

They go to the movie and grab dinner afterwards. Max learns that Hannah has one brother, that she grew up in Yerington, Nevada, but fell in love with San Francisco when she came here on vacation, that she studied at the University of Southern California but has lived here for five years.

Max tells her that she's an only child; that she lived in Arcadia Bay until she was thirteen and Seattle until just before her eighteenth birthday when she moved back to Arcadia Bay; and that she's lived in a variety of places since then.

"That's cool," Hannah says. "I'd love to travel."

"Chloe and I used to talk about going travelling. We listed out all the places we wanted to go but…"

Hannah leans forwards. "Chloe?"

Shit.

"A friend," she says, her throat burning with the fact that that's all they are, were, here. Hannah tilts her head and Max says, "She, uh, she was the girl who died in the bathroom."

"Shit, Max, I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"Doesn't mean it stops hurting, though." She rubs at her collarbone. She does that a lot though Max can't tell if her clothes are itchy or not. It sort of reminds Max of Chloe, when Chloe wasn't baked or focused. "I guess you never went?"

Max gets the impression that that isn't what Hannah wanted to say, but she says, "Not like we planned. It was always my and Chloe's thing. It wouldn't be the same without her." It hurts but she says, "I can tell you all the stuff we came up with though. At the age of ten, so hella awesomeness guaranteed right there."

Hannah laughs. "Hella? Who says that?"

Max blushes. "Another Chloe thing." She looks down. "I found it hella annoying when I first heard it-" She sees Hannah wince out of the corner of her eye at that deliberate use. "-but … it's hard not to say it."

That look again but then Hannah says, "I'm gonna end up saying it, aren't I? Damn you."

Max laughs softly.

* * *

They start to hang out every weekend. Sometimes, they do stuff, like go to shops or galleries or for walks (Max's idea) or for a run (Hannah's idea and Max hates her for it especially as Hannah does it in  _long sleeves_  and how does anyone  _do that_?). Sometimes, they stay in and watch movies. Sometimes they just sit next to each other and work. For someone so talkative, Hannah seems to value silence.

Max opens up to her, but slowly. She mentions Chloe to her, which is more than she's done with most people. Hannah tells her about her girlfriend, who passed away eight years previously. It's little things, though. She knows they met at college, that Kirsten was a terrible cook, a practical joker, wanted to work in marketing, that she loved animals. But she doesn't get a sense of  _Kirsten_  from these facts. She doubts Hannah gets a sense of Chloe. She has no idea how Kirsten died save that it was sudden.

A few people comment that Max seems happier than usual. Kate, when they next meet, says it's wonderful to see Max this way. Max smiles. She wonders what Chloe would think if she could see Max now.

But she can't. Because of Max.

* * *

"So I'm having, like, the best moment of my life and  _then_  my Mom walks in and I'm so startled, I sit up and nut her in the face. Boom. Absolute disaster."

Max laughs. Hannah grins.

"My mom told me she was disappointed in me, and I thought it was 'cause, you know, I hadn't come out and she was … but no, she thought knocking your girl out was bad form." Max laughs again. "How about you?"

"Huh?"

"Embarrassing date stories. Go."

Max shrugs. "I knocked a girl into a stream when I was trying to take a picture. I said that at least I got her wet but…" She frowns. "You know, maybe it was the pun that got me dumped."

"Probably, Caulfield." Hannah shoves her gently. Max pretends to topple but then sits back and leans against her. Hannah's comfortable, to lean against. It almost reminds her of- "Why are we so single?"

Max can't recall the last time she went on a date, but she says, "You did lose your last date in the zoo."

" _She_  lost  _me_."

"Yeah, you're blameless with an attitude like that."

Hannah shoves her again. Max laughs.

* * *

She's pretty. Max knows that.

She's smart, funny and progressing in her career.

She's a good listener. Not too much of a slob. She has great taste in movies.

She takes Max's fears seriously and never judges. She makes her laugh and confides in her.

When they hug, Max breathes in her smell and feels safe. Her arms feel solid and warm around her.

But.

* * *

"Max.  _Max_."

Max sits up, gasping, to see Hannah's face looking over hers. They'd stayed out late. Hannah is sleeping over hers.

"Yeah?"

"Sorry," Hannah says. "You uh… You were shouting."

She'd dreamed of the Dark Room again, but this time, it was Chloe taped to the chair.

"Sorry," she says. "I should've warned you."

"That happens a lot?"

"I get bad dreams."

After a few seconds, Hannah says, "Yeah. Me too. I think you woke me from mine."

They look at each other in the darkness. Then Max hugs her. Surprised – Max doesn't hug often – Hannah hugs back. Max lies back on the bed and Hannah lies with her.

They fall asleep side by side.

* * *

It hurts to wake and remember a smell of chlorine and a dare but she just smiles and wishes Hannah a good morning.

That morning, months after their first meeting, they're sitting side by side on the sofa when Hannah says, "Hey, can I tell you something?" Max nods. "I just wanted to say … I dunno. Why I've never made a move, I guess." She sounds horribly nervous and uncertain, hands almost compulsively scratching at her collarbone. Max puts her mug down to look at her. "So, you know my girlfriend died, like eight years ago?" Max nods again. Hannah inhales. "We were completely, totally in love. We'd been together for three years and I  _knew_  she was the one for me. She was amazing, Max. She was so brave and funny and sweet and... Anyway. One day, we decided to go on this train ride to San Carlos. We were in the station when a fire broke out. We tried to leave but this giant sign collapsed and it caught her leg. I went to help her, but there were these three little kids nearby – they'd been badly injured and their parents…" She swallows. "She told me to save the kids. It was hot and there was smoke and I wouldn't have time to save everyone. She said it was them or her and … I saved the kids. Like she asked. We were the last people out. She died in that station, alone and terrified. Because I chose the kids over her." She's not looking at Max now. "Eight years and I'm still … angry. That I let her die. I can't be that involved again. I go on dates but I know… I  _know_  she told me to pick them but what kind of person lets their girlfriend die?" She breathes out. "So. Yeah. I don't … wanna do that again. And I like you too much to do that to you."

Max puts a hand on her shoulder. "I understand," she says softly. "Thanks for telling me. I … I get it."

Hannah nods. "I, I thought you might." She hesitates. "Chloe?"

"Huh?"

"You don't have to tell me but … I've kinda always assumed you and Chloe were more than friends." Max doesn't respond. "You don't have to tell me," she says again.

But Max looks at her, this woman who's somehow become her closest friend. Who maybe is the  _only_  person who can understand how Max feels. Because she made that choice too.

She goes to her room and digs out a small box. She brings it back and opens it, showing Hannah a photo of a butterfly and an eighteen year old Max, reflected in a bin.

"I should throw this away," she says softly. "The temptation to use it is…"

"Max?"

Max shakes her head. "If I explain I … I'll sound delusional. You wouldn't believe me. I'm sorry. This was stupid."

"If you're worried about sounding delusional, you probably aren't so… C'mon, Caulfield, tell me."

"I…"

"I promise I'll believe you."

"No promises you can't keep," Max says fiercely. It's one of her rules and Hannah instantly raises her hands placatingly.

"OK. I promise I'll keep an open mind. C'mon, you can trust me. You know that."

Max hesitates but Hannah has always kept her secrets. Hannah knows more about her than nearly anyone, even Kate. So she says, "I can travel through time. But I won't."

"What?"

Max scowls. "Forget it. This is-"

"Hey, keeping an open mind here. That's a lot to drop on me. OK. You can time travel but you're not going to. Carry on."

Max fidgets, suddenly unsure how to explain. "OK. Um. You asked me once if I was recorded as one of Jefferson's victims. And I said no." Hannah nods. "Th-That's true. In  _this_  timeline, I didn't go into the Dark Room. In two other timelines, I did. He shot Chloe and drugged me. I woke up and he'd tied me up and w-was taking photos. He, he strapped me to a chair and tried to kill me. I swapped timelines but had to go back s-so I did and changed something else and in the new timeline, he'd c-caught me again but changed…" She brings out her phone, finds her website and locates the picture of her, the chair and Kate. "I wanted to prove to myself that I was stronger now."

Hannah is quiet. Max is about to tell her to forget it again when she says, "You rub your wrists."

"Huh?"

"I noticed it when I was doing the interview. It's what made me wonder if you had been one of... You rub your wrists, like you're trying to get circulation back." She inhales. "Start from the beginning."

So Max does. She explains it with the photos of fears. How she saw Chloe die and rewound time and the next time, saved her. How she and Chloe reunited; the mystery of Rachel Amber. The snow, that first day. Kate's video ( _alcohol next to a pile of pills, flashing club lights in the background_ ) (" _Huh. I'd always thought that was about overdosing_."). Proving her powers to Chloe. Testing her powers in the junkyard. The bottles. The bullet ricocheting from the bumper ( _a man walking, holding a gun in one hand and a bottle in the other_ ) ( _"That … Max, you realise_ nobody _knows what that one really means, right?")_. Meeting Frank. Attempting to shoot Frank. The train tracks ( _a train hurtling past_ ) ( _"Jesus, Max. I get why that one's in the collection now."_ ). Kate's suicide, rewinding, nearly losing her again ( _a hand reaching out over the edge of a tall, tall building as a doll falls_ ) ( _"I never liked that one. I mean, it … yeah._ That  _one, I think everyone got."_ ). The eclipse. Breaking into the school. The pool. Kissing Chloe. The dead birds, everywhere ( _a dead bird, lying on the sidewalk_ ) ( _"That's even creepier now that I have context and it was creepy to begin with._ "). Discovering Frank and Rachel's relationship. The time jump. Chloe, quadriplegic and dying. Chloe, asking to die ( _a person lies prone next to an empty bed_ ) ( _"Oh, Max…"_ ). Investigating Rachel. Investigating Frank. Frank dying, twice, before Max can figure out a way to save him. The Dark Room. Rachel, buried in the ground ( _A doll in an open hole, surrounded by syringes_ ) ( _"Fuck, Max. I don't know what to say_."). Two moons in the sky. The party. Rushing back to the junkyard. Chloe being shot, Max being drugged. Victoria there; the Dark Room ( _she only has the photo with Kate_ ) ( _"Don't, Max. I … I don't want to see, even if you did it voluntarily_."). Changing time to get Jefferson arrested but causing the storm. Changing it back. The Dark Room; Victoria gone ( _syringes_ ) ( _"…"_ ). David rescuing her, after multiple rewinds and three deaths. David killing Jefferson. The storm ( _wreckage of a building, cloth hanging from a sign_ ) (" _Not earthquakes then...")_. Photojumping. The nightmare ( _someone asleep but the background's distorted_ ) ( _"I got that one. It … you really captured it._ "). The storm ( _rain and debris flying and lightning flashing_ ) ( _"God. No wonder you hate them._ "). Chloe telling her to go back and let her die. The kiss. And finally, photojumping back to the bathroom and sobbing silently as Chloe dies alone ( _eleven guns for eleven shots_ ).

Hannah looks at her. "Jesus fuck, Max," she says. "How are you even halfway functional after  _that_?"

"Y-You believe me?"

"That's  _way_  too detailed for a delusion. And it … it makes sense. The photos that nobody understood, it makes sense when you know the context. You … you're infamously tight-lipped as well…" Hannah swallows. "I always thought you felt guilty about something and that… C'mere."

She hugs Max and Max clings to her, breathing in her familiar smell, feeling suddenly … more. As though something has been removed from her. Relief. That someone has heard her and believes her.

Finally, they separate. Max says, "I wanted to say that I get a bit of how you feel. With Kirsten and the kids. That … you know you did the right thing and that Kirsten was a hero." She looks down. "If I'd picked Chloe, the guilt … I dunno that we could've lived with it. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people would've died. But."

Hannah rubs her shoulder. "Kirsten would've hated me if the kids died. But." She sighs. "Without wanting to get into a fight, your choice feels more justifiable to me. You were talking about a whole town."

"You were talking about children. And…" She's never voiced this aloud, never been able to. "You and Kirsten were together for years. Chloe and I had five days that didn't exist." She glances at Hannah. "Do you ever wonder if Kirsten is up there, waiting for you?"

"I like to think she is. Why? D'you…"

"No," Max says. "She thinks I abandoned her. 'Cause I did. In this timeline, she never saw me again."

"Max…" Hannah shakes her head. "You said she told you to never forget her. You ever thought about getting a tattoo or something?"

Max shakes her head. "Feels tacky. Besides, tattoos were her thing."

"Yeah," Hannah says. "Kirsten hated them. That's why I never…"

They drift into silence. Max fidgets with the photo from the bathroom. If she photojumped now and saved Chloe, where would she be? Would her other self make the same decision? Or would she be with Chloe?

"Max?" Max looks up. "I just had a thought."

Despite herself, Max can't help saying, "Oh God."

"Hey!" Hannah doesn't grin but her lips do quirk. "I was just thinking about your photos and how you used them to remind yourself of Chloe. And how … I have an idea for a project that I think you might like."


	2. Presence

**2\. Presence**

Three years after Hannah first suggested the project, they stand together in a gallery. Max clasps Hannah's hand tightly, desperately needing her support as she faces up to their creation. It's funny but the project, which started as a therapeutic thing, has consumed both of them and brought them closer than Max could ever have imagined. That they've gotten this far is almost overwhelming.

"Are you ready for the opening, Ms. Caulfield?" the curator says.

"Y-Yeah," she says, blushing at her stutter. She's had collections in galleries before. But not like this. There's an intimacy to this that scares her. But she has to do this. She  _has_  to.

The curator smiles, oblivious to Max's thoughts. "And is this…"

"Hannah Okafor," Max says, glad to be distracted. "The other contributor."

"Ah, yes," he says, but Max can see he isn't convinced. Max had insisted that Hannah get full credit but she's only known as a reporter in the photography world.

"It's fine, Max," Hannah murmurs. "Let's take a look before everyone comes in."

* * *

They stop at the first photo, which the curator described as eye-catching. Max has to admit, she likes it.

In the photo, Hannah walks along train tracks towards the camera, eyes focused on her feet. Max, holding her hand, walks away from it. Each has their hand extended, as though holding someone else's hand.

Max had been unsure about this one at first. Kirsten and Hannah had never walked along railway tracks. But Hannah convinced her that this was a good opener, because  _this_  showed what it was that this project was about. And now, in the fall light, she can see that Hannah was right. She sees how Hannah's fingers curl, searching for Kirsten's; and in the distance, the way Max's hand waits for Chloe's. Their own fingers are passing at their fingertips, slipping away.

* * *

They walk on.

Hannah wears a pirate hat, peering at the camera. There is a noticeable space to her right.

( _"Man, you guys were cute. Show me the photo again?"_ )

Max makes a cross symbol with arms that don't touch. There is space enough between them for someone else's arms to snake through and entwine with them.

( _"Why didn't you guys pick an easier secret handshake?")_

Hannah sits in a truck, gesturing wildly at someone to come in.

( _They had to rent the truck and it's nowhere near the mess that Chloe's was, but to some extent, maybe that's the point._ )

Max holds out fallen books to nobody.

( _Hannah laughed as she recounted the incident, but when they walked away from her old college, she slipped her hand into Max's. Max didn't need to look to know she was crying.)_

Hannah dances, hands in the air as she jumps.

( _They giggled afterwards, and the picture is absolutely perfect._ )

Max pulls a silly face.

( _It's not quite right and Hannah laughed at how odd it looks on Max's face_.)

Hannah sits on the bench by the lighthouse at Arcadia Bay, as the sun sets, leaning as though she's listening intently to someone.

( _Afterwards, Hannah held Max on that bench as she sobbed and sobbed._ )

Max stands at the top of a mountain, sweaty and triumphant. Her posture is twisted slightly, as though waiting for someone.

( _They had fun on the walk up there initially, laughing and joking, making fun of Max's levels of unfitness, but Hannah became quieter and quieter as they reached the top. She didn't say a word on the way down_.)

Hannah sits at a diner booth laughing, the contents of her pockets spilled out on the table.

( _Joyce still works at the Two Whales. Max had nervously explained their idea, phrasing it as being more symbolic than it is. She worried that Joyce would feel that Hannah was trying to take Chloe's place but Joyce instead seemed touched. Max has pictures of Joyce and David in the collection. It only made sense._ )

Max sits in a fast food restaurant, milkshake spilled on the table as she laughs.

( _It's the first photo Hannah pushed the button on. It took them ages to make Max laugh enough that they could capture it, and they nearly got kicked out for annoying the other patrons._ )

Hannah takes aim at five bottles, looking at nobody for direction.

( _The junkyard was different and the same. The hideout was falling apart. Chloe and Rachel were still there. Max was not._ )

Max sits at a desk, writing an essay, head turned to ask a question.

( _Max envies the mundanity that Hannah had. Hannah wishes she'd enjoyed it more._ )

Hannah sits on the hood of a truck, arms wrapped around herself.

( _They'd originally tried to have her holding nobody, but Hannah said something about this photo made her think more strongly of Chloe, and Max is surprised to realise she's right_.)

Max is doubled over as extinguisher foam covers a frying pan.

( _Max loves how you can't tell if she's laughing or aching. When Hannah had told her the story of Kirsten's first attempt to cook dinner for her, Max had laughed until tears ran down her face. But Hannah's tight lips and clenched fists when taking the photo had been…_ )

Hannah splashes water in a lake. Some drops stain the lens, so Hannah looks blurred.

( _They'd wanted to use the local pool, but Max hadn't been allowed to take pictures. Max is glad. She wants to keep the pool for her and Chloe._ )

Max holds a gift won at a funfair tightly to her chest, the lights of the stalls blaring out almost too brightly.

( _Hannah had insisted, for authenticity, that she win the bear. It's one of the only pictures where history repeated itself. Max still has the bear_.)

Hannah stands in pyjamas, arms by her sides, eyes closed, lips closed but slightly out, head slightly forwards.

( _This was weird because Max tried to demonstrate without kissing Hannah. Eventually, Hannah told Max to kiss her just so she could get the movement right, and it felt…)_

Max's head is tilted to the right, mouth partly open and eyes closed, hands halfway out from amber streetlight into shadows, at waist height.

( _The picture looks especially odd. Max doesn't know what she thinks of it but critics will later say that this is one of the most poignant pictures in the series._ )

Max and Hannah lie on the bed, side by side, looking slightly away from each other. Their hands barely touch.

( _Some critics will later think this symbolises a love that's ended. Max never contradicts them._ )

Hannah sits at the wheel of an RV.

( _"Max, short of holding a loot bag and carrying a crowbar, I'm not going to be able to pretend to break into this. Plus, you used a key._ ")

Max sits at the wheel of a car, one hand held out, smiling at a passenger who isn't there.

( _"My mom loved her_.")

Hannah sits on a chair as people walk by without looking at her, overlooking the beach at Arcadia Bay.

( _They'd laughed at the catcalls they'd received from passers-by, but they'd clasped hands tightly afterwards when they saw how the picture came out.)_

Max talks to a middle-aged woman, gesturing in the direction of the camera. A middle-aged man looks directly at the camera, smiling fondly.

( _Kirsten's parents had been overwhelmed by the idea. They didn't stop hugging Hannah for most of their time there, and insisted on making Max dinner, telling her she was welcome anytime. If Kirsten was anything like her parents, Max could see why Hannah had loved her._ )

Hannah peers at papers. In the background, you can just about see a board covered with colourful paint.

( _They ummed and ahhed for a while about whether to use Chloe and Max's original board but the problem was solved upon learning that Joyce no longer had it. That evening, Hannah made Max dinner and sat with her until she went to bed._ )

Max leads a slow dance in a carpark outside a nightclub. The image is slightly blurry from motion.

( _Max had joked that it was cheesy, but Hannah hadn't laughed. Max apologised._ )

Hannah sits in the junkyard, hunched over her knees, right hand holding her knees together, left holding her head. In front of her, roses mark the spot where Rachel was buried.

( _Max bought the roses. She'd meant to leave them afterwards but Hannah had said she deserved to be shown as well. Max thought if Rachel and Chloe were together, somewhere, maybe they'd appreciate it_.)

Max stands outside a church, wearing black, hand wiping at her eyes.

( _Max thinks she just looks tired. She doesn't like this one._ )

Hannah walks up the path to the lighthouse, supporting nobody.

( _Max didn't sleep at all that night. Hannah stayed up with her_.)

Max walks towards a refurbished train station, holding a map, smiling.

( _Hannah vomited afterwards as Max rubbed her back_.)

In the distance, on a cliff overlooking Arcadia Bay as a storm rages, Max holds a photo to the sky.

( _Hannah refused to re-enact Chloe dying in a bathroom, alone. She said too many of these photos showed Chloe, alone._ )

In the distance, in a corridor falling apart, Hannah holds a child's hand.

( _Max refused to re-enact Kirsten lying, dying, under a sign. She said that's not what Kirsten would have wanted._ )

Max and Hannah stand side by side, faces tilted towards each other. In Max's nose, you can see a skull piercing. Hannah wears a short-sleeved, low-cut top, showing her burn scars to the world.

( _Someone later states that this photo is the bravest of them all. Because to get a piercing, Max had to face her fear of needles. And in no other photo does Hannah let her injuries be seen, and even here, there is a certain vulnerability in her expression._ )

* * *

People seem to enjoy the collection. Some have seen a few of the photos before, photos Max used to gain interest from agents, but she hears them remark on how it works so much better, together. Max is glad they like it but mainly, she feels relief. She glances at Hannah. Hannah, who thought of this, who stayed with her for all of it. Hannah, who deserves so much of the credit but seems happy to be out of the limelight.

(And behind it all, she thinks – is this enough, for what she did? Will it ever be enough?)

A few critics interview her. She explains that she and Hannah had wanted to memorialise people they had lost. Hannah then explains the idea of using each other to highlight how that absence felt to them. How they wanted to photograph absence and their separation from it by only showing the missing people, in happy or significant moments.

One critic remarks that by using each other as their opposite models, they've filled the void left by the absences. Max and Hannah glance at each other. Max quietly says that they've only caught the desire to help and understand but none of these images will ever truly capture the moments the original people made. The critic frowns but doesn't argue.

* * *

At the end, a reporter comes up to them. He's nervous, saying he wants to check if they're happy with a photo of them that he proposes to use. Max remembers posing for him but he quickly explains that that isn't the photo.

The photo is of Hannah and Max, in front of the pictures of the storm and the figure walking with the child. They are facing each other, foreheads together, fingers entwined. Max remembers the moment. Those photos hurt the most.

The reporter blushes. "You see, I know putting this together took you both years and … I thought this photo kinda captured how it must feel to, to be the only two who truly understand what it must have been like to do it. 'Cause we see these pretty pictures and we talk about symbolism but to me, this sums up that all of this is really about love."

And after that, how can she say no?

* * *

The time afterwards feels surreal. For the past three years, their energy has been put into this collection. Planning trips to the right locations, waiting for the right light, trying to recall stances and actions of so many years ago. Telling tales of everything that happened between them, seeing what's the same and what's different, talking through the bad and the good. Without the project, Max suddenly doesn't know what to do.

She feels lighter though. She doesn't know that what she did is enough but she thinks that at least everyone will have some idea of who Chloe  _was_. Some idea of what she gave up. Certainly, she feels as though through this project, she now knows more of Kirsten. She thinks Chloe would have liked Kirsten.

The only anchor she has now is Hannah. Hannah knows more of her than any other person, now. Hannah has cajoled her, laughed with her, held her, and even kissed her for this project. Max has been to Hannah's favourite haunts, around her old college, dragged furniture with her, danced in carparks for her. Hannah held her hand when she agreed to pierce her nose; Max told her she was beautiful with her scars. Max has seen her happy, stressed, angry, sobbing, lost, found; Hannah has seen the same of her.

But between them, there is this void. The reason they did all of this.

* * *

_Max_

_We saw your new collection. It's wonderful. Thank you for doing it. Pass on our thanks to Hannah too._

_Now I may be stepping out of line here but I also wanted to say that I'm pretty sure Chloe loved you too. And she'd be just thrilled if she were here and could see what you did for her. I also saw the photo of you and Hannah in_ The Inquirer _and think if Chloe were looking down now, she'd be happy for both of you._

_Thank you, again. You and Hannah are always welcome here if you need a place to stay in Arcadia Bay._

_Love_

_Joyce and David_

She reads over the second paragraph maybe fifty times and wonders how she's so transparent to Joyce, even now. Eventually, she pins the email to her bedroom wall.

* * *

Three days later, they are curled up on Hannah's sofa together. It's become normal, to be this way with each other. So when Max turns her head to ask Hannah something, and Hannah leans forwards and presses her lips to Max's, it actually feels natural. As though this is exactly what they should be doing.

Then Max realises. And so does Hannah. They lean back, staring at each other.

"So…" Hannah says. "That happened."

"Yeah."

Hannah rubs the scars on her collarbone – she wears more open clothing around Max now. Max rubs her wrists and then the nose piercing that Hannah talked her into getting.

"You're my best friend," Hannah says softly. "I feel like you know all of me."

Max rubs her wrist again. "I always thought I could never be as comfortable around anyone as I was with Chloe but … with you, it doesn't feel like there are barriers." She swallows. "But."

Tentatively, Hannah takes that rubbing hand. "I've been thinking, over the last few weeks. I dunno that I'll ever get that passion that I had with Kirsten again. And maybe that's OK. Maybe it's OK to just be content and happy. With you, I feel … complete, almost."

Max looks at Hannah's fingers, familiar in hers. She thinks of Joyce's email, of the final sentence in that second paragraph. But she says, "Shouldn't we be holding out for more?"

"I think I'd be happy with someone I love who kisses me goodbye on the way to work, who holds me when I'm sad, who cooks dinner for me and cuddles with me. Who pushes me to be better. Who understands how broken I am, and how I … can be."

Max exhales shakily. "It does sound nice." She looks down. "Hannah?"

"Yeah?"

"If … if you died first, would you…"

Hannah squeezes Max's fingers. "I'm not going anywhere without you, regardless of your answer." She kisses Max's cheek, lips soft and warm and Max feels a sense of warmth and familiarity fill her. "I'll wait for you, if you do the same for me."

Max turns her head, lips pressing against Hannah's, as she makes her decision. "I will."

* * *

Of course, it's not as easy as that.

On some days, they fit together, but they're  _more_. It's both strange and not, how comfortable Max feels kissing and cuddling her. She knows how Hannah thinks, knows when she's overexcited or sad, knows how to  _be_  around her. Hannah, similarly, knows when she's about to have a meltdown, and when she finds something amusing. But now Max knows how her lips feel, warm and open against hers; the noise Hannah makes when she touches a sensitive spot; the feel of muscles in her back. It's not wild passion but it's warm and wonderful and makes her want more.

On other days, there's guilt and sadness, and worry that maybe they're just two friends who are settling for each other. There's not wanting to talk about the future, because that makes it more real somehow. There are awkward silences, or one of them going a little too far, or not knowing how they're meant to say goodbye.

They make it work though. Or they try, at least.

* * *

The first time Max introduces her as her girlfriend, the words feel odd. Hannah smiles at her then and Max knows she understands. It does get easier after that. But Max always wonders how it would have felt to introduce Chloe as her girlfriend.

* * *

The first time Max meets Hannah's parents as her girlfriend is surreal but her parents seem happy that Hannah has found someone she likes enough to introduce. Max's parents are nothing short of relieved at the idea that Max might not live the rest of her life alone.

* * *

The first time they sleep together is not what Max expects. It starts by Hannah commenting idly that Max has her at a disadvantage in this weird game between them, because Max never slept with Chloe. Maybe she means it as a joke, or a voicing of her own thoughts, but Max goes quiet and later goes for a walk. When she returns, Hannah apologises.

"It's not … you didn't love her less, just 'cause you didn't sleep with her," she says. "We talked about that, remember?"

They did. One of the photos that never made it into the collection was of Max, naked under covers, with her arm underneath someone who wasn't there – which had been embarrassing enough to take as it was. There was no equivalent for Chloe and Max had felt stupid, because Hannah had this three year relationship while Max had had five days and a rational person would say that you can't base anything on five days. Hannah had talked her out of the funk and decided she didn't want the photo in the collection, because sex didn't make the relationship. Max has always known that she just didn't want to imply that Max's feelings for Chloe were  _less_.

"I know," Max says. She coughs. "I … I used to imagine it. What it would've been like." She tries to smile. "I sound like a perv."

But Hannah says, "What  _would_  it have been like?"

"Fun," Max says instantly. "Chloe would've been loud and rude and trying to make me flustered. But she'd have been gentle and totally into making sure I was enjoying myself." She blushes. "This is hella embarrassing."

"I still can't believe you say  _hella_."

"Oh, like I didn't catch you doing it the other day."

"It's  _hella_  stupid," Hannah says and they both crack up, despite everything. Max has picked up some of Hannah's mannerisms, which came from Kirsten – in particular, a high-pitched  _ah_  when she hears something interesting, which drives her mad – but the fact they both say  _hella_  is by far the most insidious.

"Yeah," Max says. "Anyway. Sorry. I wanted time to…"

"You said you've done it before?"

Max blushes. "Yeah," she says. "It, uh, it doesn't always go well. I don't like it if it's not…"

"Bondage isn't likely to be your thing, is it?"

Max smiles. "Something like that."

"Max, we never talked about it but if you don't want to, we don't have to-"

"I know we never talked about it but if you want to leave it as something with Kirsten-"

They pause and look at each other. Hannah cracks first, and then Max does as they both laugh.

"Right," says Hannah. "Here's where it gets difficult. Are we saying that 'cause  _we_  don't want to or 'cause we think the other person doesn't want to?"

Max swallows. "I'm curious," she says.

"You sure know how to sweet-talk a lady."

Max blushes furiously. "I just mean … I wanna know how you feel and sound. But like I said, I totally get it if you'd rather-"

"I've had sex since Kirsten," Hannah says. She pauses. "I want us to have our own thing. Just us." She takes Max's hand and presses knuckles to her lips. "I'd be lying if I didn't have the occasional fantasy though."

"O-OK."

They don't have sex that night, but the next evening, they're lying together on the sofa, Hannah's hands running up and down Max's sides, when Max kisses her. It starts slow and gentle but it builds. It's not wild passion but there's still a sort of desperation as they remove each other's clothes. It's hardly the stuff of crazy fantasies either, because Hannah remembers Max's comment of the day before and is careful to check that she's OK with everything she's doing, which Max always used to think might ruin the mood but with Hannah, it just seems par for the course.

Afterwards, they lie huddled together on the sofa, breathing heavily.

Max says, "I can't believe we had our first time on the sofa like horny teenagers. Bedroom's literally over there."

"It could be worse," Hannah says. "It could have been  _my_  sofa."

"Uh, Hannah?"

"Yeah?"

"This is  _your_  apartment."

"…Oh, shit."

It's ridiculous and bizarre but it's perfect for making the moment theirs and theirs alone.

* * *

(Later, Max comes out of the bedroom to find Hannah, sitting at her kitchen table, staring at nothing. Quietly, Max sits next to her and rubs her back. Hannah smiles gratefully at her but says nothing until, eventually, she stands and leads Max back to bed.)

* * *

"You're working on a collection, aren't you?"

Max turns around to smile at Hannah. "Sort of."

"Ooh, do I get a sneak peek?"

"You going to report on it?"

"Will I get dumped if I do that?"

"Probably."

"Alright, I've got my pe- … kidding!"

Max smiles and shifts slightly so Hannah can look at the photos amassed on her desk. Most of Max's work is freelance photography but she still works on photos for museums and exhibitions. Hannah still reports on cultural activities including photography, and can be even geekier than Max on occasion. She's almost bouncing as she looks over Max's photos, and it makes Max feel warm. It's almost like Hannah is her number one fan.

Hannah studies the photos carefully. Eventually, she turns to Max, smiling. "I love them."

Tension leaves Max. "Oh, good."

"It's weird. They feel … happier. More bright colours, I think." Before Max can respond, Hannah adds, "I can still see Chloe though. Or maybe I'm imagining it."

"I don't know," Max says. "I don't always mean for her to be there but…" She shrugs. "She liked animals. Cats especially but when we were kids, she used to beg her parents for a dog as well."

"How'd you get so many with butterflies?"

The photos are mainly of sunrises and sunsets, and bright parts of the day, with animals and people in each scene. Dogs, cats, birds, insects. While the humans are active, the animals are usually resting or relaxed. There are butterflies in a lot of them.

"Maybe I just attract them," Max says. "Like Madame Butterfly. She musta had something to do with them."

"…You've never watched that, have you?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Nothing!" Hannah grins; Max pokes out her tongue. "Anyway. Does that mean it wasn't intentional?"

"Well, I like them. They remind me of…"

Hannah nods. "But you didn't include them for any other reason?"

"They flew in by themselves. They've got hella mad skills like that. Why?"

"I was gonna ask you the first time I interviewed you. You know butterflies are meant to be someone who's died? Like, a loved one come to visit you?" She smiles but Max can hear the strain in her voice as she says, "Can't say I'm plagued by them though."

"Oh, come on, that's bullshit. One of those things people say 'cause they want to see symbols."

Even so, her throat tightens at the thought that maybe, just  _maybe_ , the blue butterflies are-

"I know," Hannah says. "But that photo you showed me, the one from when you were eighteen. That had a butterfly in it."

"Chloe was alive when I took it though. She was good at timekeeping but not  _that_  good."

Hannah snorts at that, and Max smiles a little. As the years have gone on, she's gotten better at joking about Chloe.

"Alright," Hannah says, kissing Max's cheek. "All I was thinking though is, say that  _is_  Chloe. That'd mean she's seen everything you did. She's still with you."

Max's heart clenches at that idea. That maybe she still  _has_  Chloe, that Chloe is watching her and one day…

She shakes her head. "I don't believe Chloe would visit me but Kirsten wouldn't visit you, Han." She holds her hand out. "We're in this together. Either we both get spooky butterflies or neither of us do."

Hannah's smile is a mixture of gratitude and happiness. "Thanks, Max."

* * *

The first time one of them says  _I love you_  is an accident. They are out together, debating whether to get pizza or burgers. It's a jokey argument and Max wins because she  _really_  wants pizza.

"It's a good thing I love you," Hannah says, "or I'd be holding my ground on this. Burgers are hella awesome." She pauses. "What is it? Do I have something on my face?" As Max gapes slightly uselessly, Hannah apparently replays what she said because her eyes widen and she says, "Oh, shit."

That jolts Max out of her reverie. "It's OK, Hannah," she says. Hannah probably meant as friends. It's OK. It's-

But Hannah sticks her chin out defiantly. "I meant it." She pauses. "Er. I think in hindsight, I'd have picked a better time though."

"Oh."

Hannah fidgets. "Um. We can forget this conversation."

Max's fingers play with her camera. "I love you too."

"You don't sound thrilled about it."

Max looks down. "I've never … said it before. Except once in the nightmare I had when Chloe was taking me up to the lighthouse and that was to… I didn't  _want_ to say it, then." She swallows. "Sorry. I'm fucking up the moment."

She feels Hannah's hand on her shoulder. "Hey, hey, look at me." Max looks up at concern that's too fucking familiar now, because how can she keep doing this to Hannah? She hurts everyone she loves, eventually. "You are  _not_  fucking up the moment. You just told me I'm the first person you've ever said  _I love you_  to – that's romantic in my book." She leans forwards to brush her lips against Max's cheek. "Let's both just accept that we didn't nail it."

Max smiles and says, more firmly, "I love you."

Hannah smiles back and Max feels something loosen inside her. "I love you too, idiot. Now let's go get pizza."

* * *

(Later, Max scribbles in her journal. Hannah sits nearby, watching fondly, and Max feels almost content.

She still wishes she'd told Chloe she loved her first.)

* * *

She runs into Warren. They lost touch past the occasional email some time ago, though even then, there hadn't been much to say.

Warren in his early-mid thirties looks and sounds different to Warren at eighteen, though Max supposes she must look and sound different too. He's a little more confident, his boyish looks replaced with a more mature expression. He's in the very early stages of balding. But when he smiles, she's eighteen again and chatting to one of her best friends.

"Max Attack," he says, making her smile back. "How are you?"

"I'm good. How are you, Warren? Where are you based?"

They catch up. Warren's on vacation in San Francisco but lives near Arcadia Bay with Brooke – who he married a few years ago – and his son. It feels weird, hearing Warren talk about married life and children. He shows her pictures of his son and she says all of the appropriate things. He's a scientist and he still gets enthused when talking about his research.

He follows her photography, which surprises her. He says he wanted to reach out after the project with Hannah but Brooke had said she thought Max was OK, that the project wasn't a cry for help but some kind of healing process.

She tells him about San Francisco and photography. About Hannah, who she now lives with, and their cat and veritable collection of house plants.

He smiles. "I was worried about you, you know," he says. "But you look happy. Maybe Brooke, Oscar and I could meet Hannah?" He grins. "I gotta meet the girl who captured Max's heart!"

She laughs. "I'll see if Hannah's free." She looks at him. "It was really good to see you, Warren. I'm sorry I've been such a shitty friend."

He shrugs. "You're still Max, Max. And we're still friends."

She smiles. It's only afterwards that she realises that hearing Hannah described as the girl who captured her heart only made her laugh, rather than ache.

It hurts that she's only just realised that though.

* * *

"You know," Hannah says, "you're only delaying the inevitable."

Max pokes her tongue out at her as they look at the walls of their new apartment. "Do we  _have_  to paint it neon green?"

"What's wrong with green?"

"Nothing. It's the neon I've got a problem with."

"I saw you wearing a green t-shirt the other day."

"Not a  _neon_  one. And I'm not a wall anyway."

"Yeah, yeah, hipster. C'mon, how about I make it up to you?"

"How?"

Hannah suddenly tackles Max onto the sofa and starts tickling her, making her giggle helplessly. She stops and plants a kiss on Max's forehead.

"Here's the deal," she says, still on top of Max. "If you let me paint the walls neon green, you get to pick the movie and takeaway choice for the next month."

"Three months."

"You drive a hard bargain, Caulfield. Deal." She pauses. "You gonna let me up?"

Max smiles. "No."

Hannah laughs. "Cheat."

* * *

Max proposes to Hannah. She couldn't say what makes her do it. Maybe because they've been together for nearly six years and lived together for three. Maybe because she misses Hannah when she isn't there. Maybe because she can't imagine a life without her anymore.

She does it when they're watching a movie one night. She waits until Hannah gets up to go to the bathroom and when she returns, Max is on one knee, holding out a ring.

Hannah's hands fly to her face as Max says, "Hannah, we promised we'd never go anywhere without each other and I wanna make good on that. You're my best friend, the one person who gets me and I… Will you marry me?"

"Yes," Hannah says. "Yes, yes, I will, yes." Max, trembling with relief, stands and gently lowers one of Hannah's hands to slip the ring onto her finger. Hannah peers at it. "Oh my God, Max, it's stunning. How long have you been planning this?"

"A while," Max admits ruefully.

Hannah grabs her hand. "Bedroom. Now."

Max is slightly taken aback because for all they sort of fit together, they've never exactly been prone to fits of wild passion. "Uh-"

"Now, Caulfield."

"Eep. OK."

* * *

Afterwards, Hannah says, "Thank you."

"Thank  _you_."

Hannah giggles and slaps her arm lightly. "Not about  _that_. For proposing."

Max frowns. "You're welcome?" She pauses. "This is hella formal now."

"No, I mean…" Some of the lightness leaves her body and Max rolls onto her side to give her her full attention. "I just wasn't sure either of us would, given that…"

Max reaches down her side for her hand and squeezes it. "I thought about it a lot. I'm not gonna lie and pretend part of me didn't wish … but the point is, Chloe  _isn't_  here and I can't spend all of my life wishing she would be. It's been nearly twenty years, Han. I love you and can't imagine my life without you now." She thinks of an email Joyce sent, years ago. "I … the more I think about it, the more I think Chloe maybe … it's clichéd but I think she'd be happy that I found someone I love." Her face is burning now. "I've always hoped she found Rachel up there, and they're happy together. I guess it's not till recently that I thought she might hope the same for me."

Hannah nods. "It's a quiet kind of love, isn't it?"

Max knows what she means. She's heard friends say how Hannah and Max are like a sweet, old couple. They cuddle more than they kiss. They're not known for their spontaneous gestures. They're solid, dependable. She thinks of Hannah and her heart fills with warmth and happiness, but it doesn't beat faster and faster with excitement.

"It doesn't make it worse."

"No," Hannah says. "It doesn't."

* * *

Even though they're set on a small, low-key wedding, wedding planning turns out to be one of the most stressful things either of them has done for years. There are politics about who to invite. Places get booked up fast. People have strong opinions on decorations, food, entertainment until Max just wants to scream.

After a particularly tense negotiation with the catering company, Max sits next to Hannah, rubbing her back sympathetically as Hannah rants about people who are incompetent generally and why does it matter what decoration they put on a fucking cake anyway, and offering the occasional  _yeah_  or  _totally_.

Eventually, Hannah looks at Max and says, "D'you ever wish you still had your rewind powers? You said you used 'em to win arguments like that." Max stills and Hannah groans. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking. Skip that question."

Max rubs her wrists. "I still have them, I think. They feel like an itch sometimes. But I didn't use them to win  _arguments_. I just wanted to … not fuck up so often. Help people." The rubbing increases. "It'd make things easier, for sure, but I couldn't… I couldn't lose you too."

"Max…" When Max looks at her, there are actually tears in Hannah's eyes. Hannah's fingers gently ease under Max's hands and thread through her fingers – a gesture that works better than gripping Max's wrists. "I wasn't thinking."

Max looks at their interlocked fingers. "I haven't thought about using my powers for years. But I think it's better to live with the consequences. You don't grow if you can fix every mistake. I think that's what the universe was trying to tell me when it…"

Hannah draws Max to her, holding her tightly, and Max relaxes into her. "I love you. I'm so glad I got sent to report on your collection that day."

Max grins. "I dunno. You were seriously hot on my stuff. I was looking for an easy ride. And even now…"

Hannah pushes her away. "Dork."

Max darts forwards and kisses her. "I'm kidding. I love you too. Especially as  _you're_  dealing with the caterers."

* * *

A couple of nights before their wedding, Hannah rolls over to look at Max, who is still up and reading.

Max looks up. "You haven't forgotten anything, Hannah. We checked."

"How'd you know what-"

"Lucky guess."

Hannah pouts and Max laughs. She goes back to her book.

"Max?"

"Yeah?"

"What would your and Chloe's wedding have been like?"

Max puts the book down. "Han, we agreed-"

"I know. But I kinda wanna … it feels right, to me, to…"

They'd agreed, early on, that this was  _their_  wedding. They wouldn't talk about Chloe or Kirsten. It wasn't so much that they would forget them, but they didn't want to taint this with their absence – make what should be something happy into something sad.

"But we agreed, we're  _not_  marrying…"

"C'mon, don't pretend you've not wondered too."

Max sighs. "It … honestly, I actually don't think we'd have had a proper wedding. Chloe would've proposed and gotten so impatient, we'd probably have eloped the same night."

Hannah is quiet for a few seconds before poking Max.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"Why the hell didn't you tell me we could've done that? Think about how much of our life and sanity we could've saved!"

"I didn't think you'd want to elope."

"I… Hmm…" Hannah seems to think about this. " _Kirsten_  would've wanted a big wedding and I just assumed…" She sighs. "We can't elope now, can we?"

"No, Hannah. Your mom will kill me. And  _my_  mom will kill me."

"Damn. Fine."

She pouts and Max grabs her camera from the bedside cabinet to take a photo. She laughs as Hannah tackles her, trying to grab it, and holds it out of reach. Eventually, Max is on her back, still clutching the photo, and Hannah is straddling her. Max looks up at her. She's aged in the ten or so years they've known each other. She has laughter lines now and a couple of specks of grey in her dark hair. She's gained a little weight too.

A pang. What would Chl-

"Got it!" Hannah grabs the photo from Max's hand and inspects it. "This … this is really good, Max. And … was it intentional, to have it sorta framed this way?"

"I don't know, Hannah. I can't think when you're sitting on me."

Hannah leers at her before sliding off Max and prompting Max to lie on her side so that Hannah can put her arms around her torso, to show her the photo.

(It took a long time before Max trusted Hannah enough to even confine her this way. It's still not Max's favourite way of cuddling, but she knows Hannah likes it, and she can tolerate it so she lets it slide.)

Immediately, she can see what Hannah means. The photo is of Hannah, lying on her side, pouting but the frame is too low at the top and too focused to the right, giving the impression of someone just behind her – as though Hannah has rolled away from that person.

But it's not a sad photo. You can see the love and laughter in Hannah's eyes, and from the way she's looking at the camera, you know she's focusing on Max.

"No," Max says quietly. "That was just bad technique from me."

Hannah softly kisses Max's shoulder, and tension she didn't know she had leaves her body. "I like it. It makes me feel…"

"Like maybe she's there and watching?"

"We agreed."

"Yeah."

Hannah puts the photo on the bedside cabinet. Max rolls onto her back and Hannah cuddles up next to her.

"I'm sorry," Hannah says. "I brought it up. I … I  _want_  this, Max. I want this so fucking much."

"I know, Hannah. I know."

* * *

(Max has a nightmare, that night, of a bullet driving its way through Chloe's skull as Max lies there, hands bound together, unable to move. Hannah shakes her awake and holds her hand until Max falls asleep again.

All these years and Max still struggles to sleep without nightmares.)

* * *

They hold the wedding, and it goes off without too many disasters. Max's dad walks her down the aisle, and whispers that he's proud of her and so glad she's found someone who makes her happy. She can't help hugging him before she goes to the altar.

(When she told her parents that she was bisexual, her dad smiled. "Oh, honey, we already knew you weren't straight. I always thought if we hadn't moved to Seattle, you and Chloe…")

They get through the vows though Max stumbles a few times and Hannah mispronounces her own name, and then starts laughing at Max trying not to laugh, and has to start again. When they're told they can kiss each other, Hannah is still giggling and it vibrates through Max when their lips comes together.

(They'd toyed with writing their own vows but Hannah had decided that whatever they came out with would make perfect sense to them and no sense whatsoever to anyone else, and would probably imply they were in a polyamorous relationship, which would then turn the wedding into a detective series as people looked for the missing members of the relationship. A comment that should have been painful was so funny that Max had snorted out her drink and agreed.)

The dinner is nice. Hannah's brother gives a hilarious speech about Hannah growing up while Max's father gives a softer one about how proud he is of Max and how happy he is to welcome Hannah into the family, even if he wishes they hadn't done the "hipster" thing and meshed their surnames together.

(They'd argued for some time about what their married names should be, even toying with just swapping them. However, although they agreed not to mention Chloe or Kirsten, they both knew that they would feel if one of them took the other's surname, it would be almost too much like walking away. Meshing them into Okafield felt better – as though they were teaming up and supporting each other. Though, as Max pointed out, they were likely to see lots of misspellings of  _Oakfield_  as a result.)

Max still stumbles over her own feet when they have the first dance but in the moment that Hannah catches her and they look into each other's eyes, Max feels at peace.

* * *

(That evening, when she's taking a break, she winds up standing next to David Madsen. David uses a walking stick now, and much of his hair has escaped him, but he's still the gruff, no-nonsense man from Max's year at Blackwell. He congratulates her on her wedding and she thanks him.

"You know," he says, not really looking at her, "it's a hard thing, stepping into the shoes of someone who's died."

"I know," Max says huskily. She hesitates. "Did you ever think about … what if … afterwards, when you're dead and if William were…"

"Focus on living, Max," he says. He takes a swig of his drink. "Even if I only have Joyce temporarily, it'll still have been worth it." He claps her shoulder. "You've got a beautiful wife who loves you. Enjoy what you have now rather than worrying about the future. Otherwise what's the point in living at all?"

A few seconds later, Hannah comes up next to her. Max glances at David who nods, lips quirked in a smile. Max takes Hannah's hand and lets her lead her away.)

* * *

That night, after everything, Hannah turns to her and says, "We're married."

"I know."

"It's amazing."

Max kisses her. "I know."

* * *

Afterwards, they look at the photos. Max insisted on taking most of the shots, ignoring Hannah's accusation that Max just didn't want to be in the shot.

(Max once told Hannah that as a teenager, she took a selfie every day. Hannah started to laugh and ask what went wrong, but then she saw how Max's hands rubbed her wrists and said, "Shit, Max. Fuck Jefferson for taking that from you.")

There are a lot of wonderful photos of Hannah, Hannah's family, Max's family, their friends, Joyce and David. There are butterflies in a lot of them. Blue ones, and now orange and black ones. It is summer, so maybe it's not too surprising, but when Max hears Hannah sniffle, she knows they're thinking the same thing.

Their favourite one, which they put on the mantelpiece, is of Max and Hannah walking hand in hand away from the church. There's a blue butterfly near Max's shoulder, and an orange and black one near Hannah's head. People tell them there are better photos but to Max and Hannah, this one is perfect.

* * *

Max makes a new collection, based on the photo she took of Hannah two days before their wedding. She's relatively well-known in the world of photography now – especially after her and Hannah's project – and this one garners a lot of reviews.

Some of the photos are from their honeymoon, of Hannah with the framing deliberately off. Some are of Max, though those are rarer. A couple are of the pair of them together. Many are of other things – people they meet, sights they see, or items that remind them of…

They go to LA, as part of the project. Max couldn't say why. She's been to LA twice before but never for a proper visit. She looks around it now and thinks that maybe Chloe and Rachel would have loved it here, but Max wouldn't have. Still, she takes photos of Hollywood Boulevard and the Griffith Observatory. She takes the most in Santa Monica and those are the photos she uses in the collection. They go to Seattle too and Max uses just one photo from there – of the shore of Alki Beach, with city blocks in the distance in one corner of the photo and the tip of Hannah's finger pointing to them.

They go to places Chloe loved, that Kirsten loved, and take photos there. Of happy people, of laughter, of sunshine and fun. Max especially loves the photo she takes of a laughing skater girl in what appears to be an empty park, flipping someone off, and Hannah likes the photo of a boy smirking as he water bombs someone from a desolate corridor.

Critics and fans note that this collection is one of her warmest yet, and it actually makes Max smile to see anonymous people comment that they're glad Max's life is getting better. They note that the subjects are mostly happy despite their apparent isolation, and that the missing person seems not so much to be  _missing_  as  _invisible_. Still, a few point out that some images are sadder than others – a knocked over pile of weed, as though someone has stood in a rush; an empty beach in Santa Monica at night; travel guidebooks in a bookstore, gleaming and unopened, with one lying on the floor, a footprint on its cover.

 _What Ms. Oakfield is saying_ , one critic writes,  _is that just as you cannot separate absence from presence, in a life worth living, you cannot separate happiness from sadness. One gets through life experiencing loss, joy, despair and rapture, and one hopes to be mostly happy. If you don't acknowledge what isn't in your life, how can you say you're truly happy with what you have?_

Max pins that review to the wall, even with her surname misspelled. She never tells anyone that that's the only reviewer who really hit the nail on the head.

* * *

The years pass by, slowly at first, and then almost in a rush. Hannah becomes chief editor in a cultural magazine, specialising in art and photography. Max becomes well known but never Jefferson levels of fame – though to some extent, that's deliberate. They stay in San Francisco, moving into a house in the suburbs, and adding a dog to their little family. They travel, sometimes, though now to locations neither of them dreamed of before.

They consider children, but eventually decide not to try. It's not because they don't particularly want children, but it feels as though they are complete by themselves. And deep down, neither of them wants to risk losing their children or having their children see them die. Neither of them can be that vulnerable and loving again.

(Their families try to convince them to change their minds, and Max nearly cracks at one point, but she sees Hannah scratch at burn scars that don't itch and knows that Hannah won't change her mind. Because just as Hannah lost someone that day in the train station, three small children lost their parents, and Hannah still wonders how they coped.)

The dreams don't lessen, and Max suspects they never will. She won't drink alcohol past one glass. Hannah still has to hold her hand if she's getting shots at the hospital, like she's a little kid. Nosebleeds make her freak out, and storms make her whimper. At a magic show, she gets asked to assist with a magic act but the moment she sees that it involves tying her to a chair, she tries to back away; when the magician, thinking she's just shy, tries to tug her forwards, she hyperventilates and her friend leads her away, confused.

But. She wakes every morning to see Hannah, smiling and sleepy. She walks the dog and hugs the cat. She meets clients, speaks to agents, and takes photos. She eats dinner with her wife, and laughs at her stories. She ushers Hannah away when she sees fires, and grudgingly goes running with her. In the evenings, they read, or watch movies, or talk, their limbs tangled together and Hannah's lips in her hair. At night, they hold each other after nightmares and just the feel of Hannah makes Max feel safe again.

And sometimes, she'll catch sight of her nose skull piercing, or see a familiar beanie, or hear someone talk in a certain way, and she'll think of Chloe. She'll feel that ache, still, but there will be a certain fondness and a nostalgia. She'll wonder where Chloe is now, and if she's happy. She won't wonder if Chloe is waiting for her, or looking for her, though. She's always known the answer to that, and the guilt she feels will always be there.

She doesn't stop loving Chloe in the same way that she knows Hannah still loves Kirsten. But she's happy enough with Hannah and that's enough.

* * *

Max's mom passes away first, and her dad is heartbroken. Max sits with him, night after night, watching the man she looked up to as a child sob.

When he passes away the following year, she's heartbroken herself but deep down, she thinks it might be for the best. Her parents were two halves of a whole and she knows that if there is an afterlife, they have reunited there. Maybe her dad could have found someone like Hannah but maybe…

Hannah's father passes next, and it's Max's turn to comfort her. They attend the funeral and Hannah's brother tries to distract Hannah with her niece and nephews, which only sort of works because none of them are small children so they're not very unruly. Max doesn't cry until she's alone. She  _liked_  Hannah's father, who took an instant liking to Max when he met her and tried to teach her a new skill every time he saw her.

Joyce dies suddenly – a hit and run, and Max fumes at the irony and helplessness of it. She travels to Arcadia Bay for the funeral. She doesn't mean to stay long but David asks for her help walking him back home, asking if she could come without Hannah.

"You're a good kid, Max," he says, even with Max now being in her late fifties herself. "It's a damn shame what happened all that time ago."

"I miss her too, David."

He grunts. "Joyce wanted me to give you something if she went first. Said she'd wanted to give it to you years ago but…" They reach his house and he fumbles at the lock. She waits patiently until he manages it, and helps him in. He immediately heads to a cupboard and pulls out an album. Curious, Max looks inside.

Photos. Not just of Max and Chloe when they were children (God, they looked so angelic then) but photos from after Max left, of Chloe with Joyce, with David, with Rachel. Max's heart aches as memories of the five days that never existed rush back because  _this_  is Chloe, with her defiant eyes, her determined expression, her mischievous smile. This is Chloe, the good and the bad.

"Yeah," David says into the silence. "I think Joyce wanted to hold onto that as long as she could."

"Are you sure?" Max says. "She was your daughter too."

Because in the five days that never were, David killed Jefferson for killing his child.

David sniffs. "I should've been a better father, and we both know it. No. Those are yours. Don't think we didn't see you, coming back every year to visit her grave. Joyce loved you for that, you know. " He sniffs again. "I sometimes think I wasn't even a good husband to her. God, why'd she have to go first? Damn punks, don't they ever  _think_ -"

Max hugs him. He's thin now, and reliant on that walking stick, his hair now grey entirely.

When they separate, he says, "Do me a favour? Take a photo of me and you."

Max takes the photo from a makeshift tripod. David is wiping his eyes in it, while Max has her arm around it. They both look old and tired, but somehow defiant. David nods when he sees it.

"Publish that," he says. "It fits."

There's no trace at all of Chloe and Joyce there, just two people who no longer have them. David's right. It's perfect.

* * *

It's her final big project. She knows that even as she starts it. But it feels right. She takes photos of those who are left behind, starting with herself at her parents' graves, and Hannah at her father's. When Hannah's mother passes, she doesn't ask but her family say they want to be in the project, and it comes out with the clan all looking into the camera, determined not to cry. She takes a separate one of Hannah, holding her nephew tightly.

When David passes, she goes back for the funeral and takes a photo of Blackwell Academy – still there. One of his old police friends asks to be in the photo, so she takes one of him. She takes one of herself, too, with David's walking stick.

She breaks her usual rule of not telling people what her next project is and posts on her website, saying she wants volunteers. The response is overwhelming, from all over the world. She takes photos in Florida, Mississippi, Canada, France, Wales, Ireland, Denmark, Kansas, Malaysia, Arkansas, Sweden, Mexico, Cuba, Colorado, New York, Wyoming, England, Iceland, Portugal, Montana, Japan, West Virginia, Utah, Australia, Germany, Texas, Washington … among others. Her eye is less keen, and Hannah can't make as many trips as she used to, but people don't mind. The photos are all different too. Some are at the funeral, some are after. A couple have been near hospitals or other sites of tragedy. Some people want to hold a picture of the person who passed, or a memento while others hold each other. Some look defiant, others sad, others just fond. People wave, cry, hold hands, look into the distance or into the camera.

It takes her years to complete, because the requests keep coming in. Eventually, she draws a line in the sand. Some people that she's met have said they've followed her work since her early days, and it takes her breath away how long that is now. She's met fans before, of course, but this puts a different face on it. Many of them ask about her missing person, the one who's been missing all along, and Max realises that she knows what she needs to do, now, to make it enough.

Hannah is with her as she uploads the final batch of pictures to her site, and then sends the originals to the gallery waiting for them. Hannah's hand trembles on her shoulder as they look at the photos.

The first ones, of course – Max and David; Max at her parents' graves; Hannah and her family. David's old friend, almost bowed over with age. Then. An old woman from Miami who sits on the bench her husband built for her. A brother and sister in Stockholm, by their mother's grave, stoic and defiant. A group of young men by a smashed up motorcycle in Florence. A man and his young son, red-eyed from crying, holding a photo of a young woman in a hospital bed in Washington DC. Four teenagers and two adults, by their grandparents' house in Salisbury, holding the chessboard their grandparents used every night. An entire bingo hall of people in Swansea. A woman sobbing outside the hospital where her boyfriend died in Kansas City. Kirsten's sister and Hannah, holding Kirsten's father's basketball. Kate Marsh with her sisters, hands held in a circle around a picture of their father in Arcadia Bay. A young couple holding their baby daughter's teddy bear in Thermopolis. Victoria Chase (a genuine surprise) holding her daughter and grandson's hands as they stand at her husband's grave in Seattle. A middle-aged man holding a pint outside his best friend's favourite pub in Nuremburg. And more and more and more and more. All of these people who told Max their stories and the stories of those who passed away.

And then.

Hannah, standing in sunlight, hand on a grave in Fresno, burn scars on withering skin plain for all to see. The words  _In loving memory of Kirsten DeSouza. April 24, 1993 – July 6, 2015_  stand bold in white lettering.

Max, standing by the Price family grave, with just the words,  _Chloe E, 1994 – 2013_  engraved, next to her mother and father's names. In front of the grave is the last picture of Chloe that Max could find in this timeline, carefully preserved.

Underneath those two pictures is the word:  _Forever._

* * *

_Presence_

_This is Max Okafield's final big collection, or so we're led to believe. And what a collection it is. You can see how much love and effort she has put into this. Those familiar with Ms. Okafield's work will know that she likes to play with the themes of absence and presence, and how they interlink, and if that's what you're looking for, you won't be disappointed here. Each photo tells a story of loss and love, and the strength and fears of those left behind. Ms. Okafield skilfully plays with lighting and framing, and even colour – note the picture in Norway in that strange sepia light – and even though the point is to highlight the presence of those who remain, you can still feel the absence of those who have gone. The photos were taken individually but, as always, Ms. Okafield has taken care to tie them together – particularly haunting is the juxtaposition between the young man in Geneva holding his mother's necklace; and the old man in Portland, standing at his daughter's grave – and weave her chosen themes throughout. It's truly a work of art that I would implore everyone to see._

_And for those familiar with Ms. Okafield's work, I'm sure I'm not the only one who shed a tear at those last two photos. I will not ruin it other than to say, the words,_ Gone but not forgotten _have never been truer. I hope this collection has brought Ms. Okafield and her wife the peace they so clearly deserve – it has surely given those of us who have seen it and her other works a new understanding of the impossibility of separating absence from presence._

* * *

And then.

The messages.

The messages.

_I'm so sorry that you lost someone you loved at such a young age._

_I see it now, what you were trying to show._

_It's so cool that you've kept her with you, all this time._

_Maybe I don't understand the photos, but they seem like fun people._

_When I go back and look at your other photos, I can really see her there, with you._

_Shit, Max. I hope I meet someone who loves me as much as you two loved Chloe and Kirsten. And each other, of course._

_You and your wife went through so much. I never met Kirsten and Chloe, but I know they must be happy for you two._

_This is beautiful._

_God, I get it now. I wish I could have hugged you back in those early days. That's a lot to deal with._

_After all these years, Max? God damn, you two give_ true love _a new meaning._

_Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I went back and looked at the last photos from the collection you and Hannah did and you guys shouldn't blame yourselves. I don't know what happened, but they wouldn't want you to feel guilty._

_I hope Chloe and Kirsten in real life were as awesome as the Chloe and Kirsten in my head._

_Hey, this is gonna sound creepy but I live near Arcadia Bay and I'd be happy to make sure the grave stays in good condition. I know it might be hard for you to make the trip these days._

_Damn. I'm going to share this with everyone I know. We'll keep them alive for you._

_We'll keep the website going, Max. They won't be forgotten, and neither will you._

Max has to stop reading. She's crying too much to see.

* * *

They grow old. Hannah retires soon after the project ends, and while Max continues to take photos, she stops freelancing. Max needs a walking stick; Hannah's limbs tremble. They get out of wind walking through streets. Hannah's mind wanders; Max's eyesight starts to fail. Hannah wears a hearing aid and Max wears glasses.

Hannah still talks too much, leaps to conclusions, laughs loudly. She's still open and loving. She kisses Max goodbye every morning. She gossips about the people down the road, and laughs when Max says they've become  _those_  old ladies.

They argue but it's familiar arguments. Max has nightmares; Hannah holds her. Hannah does the occasional stupid thing and Max gently scolds her. They watch movies and study photography together. They make stupid plans that they know will never be fulfilled.

Every night, Max kisses her and tells her she loves her. Every night, Hannah laces their fingers together.

* * *

One day, fifteen years after the final collection, Max uploads a photo to the website: Hannah, sitting in the back garden, eyes closed as she enjoys the Californian sunshine on her face, beautiful even at seventy-eight. A black and orange butterfly rests on the chair.

Underneath it, Max writes,  _Hannah Okafield. Thank you for everything._

She switches off the computer, puts the camera into a drawer, and sobs.

* * *

Hannah's nephews and niece help her with the funeral. It was just old age, the doctors said. She wouldn't have felt any pain as she slipped away, her fingers still locked in Max's.

Max doesn't know what to say at the funeral. She just stares at the coffin. Thinking that Hannah can't be dead. They still had those stupid plans. They had that movie to watch. Hannah wanted to try that new restaurant up the road.

She says something, in the end, about how Hannah put her together, how Hannah was the best thing to happen to her, how she hopes Hannah will be happy and at peace now. She says she hopes Hannah finds Kirsten which she knows sounds odd but she doesn't care.

Afterwards, Hannah's eldest nephew sits with her in her garden.

"You know, Auntie," he says awkwardly, "She was happy with you. Dad said that until she met you, there was always something … missing. He said the first time he met you, he knew you were a keeper."

She hugs him. "Thank you."

* * *

Deep down, she thinks, this must be how Chloe felt, all those years and timelines ago.

She's the only one left, now. They've all gone on without her.

* * *

She goes about her daily life, without Hannah, without Chloe. She fills it with reading and movies and music and keeping the house together. She doesn't touch her camera again. Without Hannah, it seems pointless.

She feels her body weaken, her joints ache, her mind dull. She coughs but it doesn't get better. She forgets where she puts things. She calls out for Chloe or Hannah, forgetting that they aren't there.

And one day, she feels herself fall, and she knows, she  _knows_  she won't be getting back up.

* * *

When she opens her eyes, she's standing in a corridor. She frowns but then places it. The entrance hall of Blackwell Academy. A place she hasn't visited for nigh on sixty-five years other than to take that one photo for David.

She walks forwards and pauses, realising that the pain has gone. She feels young and strong, and when she glances down, her hands are smooth and whole, her body straight and her clothes akin to what she wore as a teenager.

She pushes the front door open. Outside, a familiar figure turns and smiles at her. Max smiles back, eyes taking in a Hannah who's young and vital again, black braids tightly woven and skin oddly flawless. Wordlessly, Hannah steps forwards and flings her arms around Max, drawing her into a hug. Max reciprocates, breathing in her familiar smell.

"You're here," Max says, almost choking with relief that Hannah waited.

Hannah steps back. "Course I am," she says.

"Thank you." She sniffs. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too." Hannah coughs and smiles nervously. "I'm not the only one though."

"Huh?"

Hannah steps to the side and gestures to a figure, sitting on the steps. Max frowns because from here, she can see a black jacket and blue hair poking from under a blue beanie and it can't-

The figure stands and turns and suddenly, Max is running, running as she hasn't done in decades. She flings her arms around someone who she hasn't held in so long but feels so, so familiar, and buries her head in her chest.

Arms wrap around her and she feels Chloe's head on hers.

"Hey, Maxaroni," she says and even her  _voice_ , which Max has tried to remember for so long, is wonderfully warm and loving and familiar. "You missed me?" In response, Max grips her tighter and feels Chloe vibrate with laughter. "Hell yeah, you did. Gonna crush all the breath outta me there, Max."

Max steps back and looks up, at warm blue eyes and blue hair. "Chloe," she says. "You're, you're here. You waited? For me?"

"I told you, Max," she says and Max can  _hear_  the smile in her voice. "I'm never leaving you."

Chloe remembers. This Chloe lived through time with her.

"But after everything…"

Chloe smiles. "You're still my hero." The smile slips. "Dude, no, don't, don't cry. It's OK. Shit, did you see what people like, like Warren and Dana and them went on to do?"

"Because of  _you_  and they don't even  _know_  it."

"Because of  _us_." Chloe extends her hand and Max takes it "And it's not been so bad. Rachel sat with me, for a while. And Frank, of all fucking people. Mom too, till David came and I told them to find Dad. I've wandered through once or twice as well. Hey, I think your, uh, wife might want to..." They look across to see Hannah, now joined by a young Hispanic lady who can only be Kirsten. Guilt flashes through Max. She glances up at Chloe.

"Chloe, I-"

"It's OK. I … won't pretend I didn't get hella jealous but … she loves you. She made you happy and she  _knew_  me. Because of you." Chloe takes a breath. "She knew all about me, even little things  _I'd_  forgotten. Like, dude, what the hell? And all those people, those photos you and her took, all of 'em know like, shit, my favourite band, my Santa Monica dreams, my truck and … shit, Max." Her voice trembles now. "You did so much to keep me alive down there. How the fuck could I be mad that you found someone who kept  _you_  alive?" She swallows. "You, you should go to her. She waited too. Her and Kirsten. And I, I get it. If … I mean…"

Gently, Chloe releases her hand and nudges her. Awkwardly, she walks to Hannah, who meets her halfway. Behind her, Max can see bright, white light – like the edges of the photos she used to jump through, that indicated that she'd have to move on – and she knows, instinctively, that that's where she's meant to go. Afterwards.

She looks back at Hannah.

"Hey," she says softly. She glances behind Hannah again. "Kirsten waited?"

"Kirsten waited." They look at each other and then, suddenly, Hannah pulls her into another fierce hug. "It's OK, Max," she says softly. "You need Chloe. You've always needed her and I've always known that. I'm not gonna stop you from being with her. We … we had a good life, the  _best_  life but we always knew it…"

Max nods, tears slipping down her face. "You should go with Kirsten. I saw how you looked at each other. You deserve that. You've waited so long for her. I just … after everything  _we_  went through, I..."

"It isn't goodbye. You and I, we'll still love each other. Nothing will ever change that." She steps back and gently kisses Max. "Thank you for everything."

Max leans forwards and places their foreheads together. "We go together," she says softly, fiercely. "We, we promised.  _You_  promised. We don't go without each other."

Hannah smiles then, so strong that Max  _knows_  she'd been worried that Max would leave without so much as a backward glance. "We'll see you at the edge."

Max nods and goes back to Chloe, who smiles. Gently, she wipes the tears from Max's face.

"All good?" she says.

Max peers up at her. "Yeah." She breathes in. "I … I've wanted to see you for so long. I can't believe you waited."

"Couldn't go on without my partner in time, could I?"

They smile at each other.

"I've not really seen much of what's through there," Chloe adds after a few seconds. She holds out her hand and Max takes it. "Come with me? We can even team up with your girl and her girl. I know you want to." Chloe pauses. "Shit. This is confusing. Do I have to bang Kirsten now? Like, so we're all on the same page?"

Max starts laughing because it's so inappropriate and so  _Chloe_  and  _fuck_ , she's missed this and  _fuck_ , it feels like all of the decades between them have fallen away. Chloe grins, pleased that she's made Max laugh.

"I love you," Max says. "And you don't have to bang anyone you don't want to."

Chloe laughs. Together, they walk towards the edge of the carpark, where Hannah and Kirsten stand, hand in hand. They look at each other. Hannah's eyes crinkle with her smile when she sees them, and Max can't help smiling back.

"Ready?" Hannah says.

Max squeezes Chloe's hand, and Chloe squeezes back. Then she holds out her hand, and Hannah takes it. Beside her, Kirsten winks at Max.

It's taken so long, she thinks, but she's finally with the two people she loves most in the world, and they're with the people  _they_  love too.

"Yeah," she says. "Ready."

_**Fin** _


End file.
